


The Importance of Fingers

by vienn_peridot



Series: A Two-Spark Problem in Lost Light Relationships [3]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Biology, Drift only opens his mouth to change whatever foot he previously had in there, Drift please be shoosh, Established Relationship, Other, PLEASE be shoosh, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Delphi, Ratchet did some stupid things when he was younger, Shower Sex, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, for the sake of my sanity and self-respect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 15:10:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8805688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vienn_peridot/pseuds/vienn_peridot
Summary: During a dalliance in the washracks Drift's chronic foot-in-mouth resurfaces and Ratchet comes clean about one of his more embarrassing youthful escapades.TL;DR:They get clean, Ratchet comes clean, they both cum clean.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a promptfill from Tumblr f-o-r-e-v-e-r ago that I decided to expand, then threw in the edit pile and forgot about.  
> Request was: "You didn't tell me you were THAT big!Holy Shit!!" Ratchet to Drift please?"
> 
> Technically also a part of the Two-Spark Problem series while also being PWP

When they finally fragged it wasn’t in any of the places Drift had fantasised about, and definitely _not_ the location he would have picked if he’d been given the choice.

Although, given how their relationship had gone so far it was probably inevitable that nothing went according to Drift’s plans.

 _It’s been anything_ but _normal, so it probably makes sense._

It started with a single touch, an innocent brush of Drift’s fingers over Ratchet’s still-new palm when he passed the medic the long-bristled armour brush. Nothing they hadn’t done a million times before, in crowded washracks all over the ship.

Except this time they were alone.

And this time Ratchet’s engine made a funny sound at the contact.

Drift looked over, wondering if the solvent spray had somehow made its way into Ratchet’s systems. But instead of seeing a choking mech, Drift was met by a strange, yearning look that made his Spark lurch towards the medic, pressing against the inside of its chamber as if trying to push him closer to Ratchet.

“You ok?” Drift asked, reaching out with a hand that Ratchet caught in his own.

The discarded brush clattered to the floor as they locked optics and Ratchet slowly raised Drift’s hand to his mouth. Drift’s fuel pump almost stalled as Ratchet deliberately kissed his knuckles slowly and sensually before turning them over to kiss his way up the insides of Drift’s wrist. Heat flared through Drift’s frame, his engine dropped gears to purr loudly and Ratchet’s optics sparkled mischievously at him.

It was enough.

The dam holding Drift’s desires at bay had been strained under months of travelling with the medic aboard the Lost Light and now it started to buckle. Under the hot weight of Ratchet’s gaze his willpower wavered, crumbling completely when he caught the little flicker of glossa as Ratchet raised his helm, teal optics burning brightly as he deliberately licked the taste of Drifts plating from his lips.

In a flash Drift had Ratchet pressed against the wall, kissing the medic with as much hunger as Ratchet was kissing him. Hands roamed and solvent began to steam away from hot plating as Drift got a leg between Ratchet’s thighs, deliberately pressing up against the medic’s array. Ratchet retaliated by nipping Drift’s bottom lip and wrapping a leg around the speedster’s waist in a display of flexibility he honestly hadn’t expected, even after all this time together. Drift took advantage of the easier access to press in closer, rubbing their pelvic armour together, the roaring of their engines echoing off the walls to cover the embarrassing whimpering noises Drift knew he was making as hands slid up his back and he kissed Ratchet until he felt his lipplates starting to bruise.

Drift was incredibly relieved when their arrays opened simultaneously, the head of his spike nosing against a wet heat that had nothing to do with the fact that they were in the washracks and everything to do with the mech in his arms. Drift’s hips stilled in their unconscious rocking, a dim note of caution sounded somewhere in his lust-hazed processors, reminding him about the importance of _fingers_.

_If we’re gonna do this I need to…_

“Ratchet.” Drift groped for words that decided to disappear as he felt Ratchet’s lubricant start running down his spike.

“If you don’t frag me against this wall in the next _two seconds_ I’m going to knock you down and climb your spike myself.” Ratchet growled, pressing his hips down so that his slick folds rubbed maddeningly over the head of Drift’s spike.

Years of experience and a few swift calculations combined to decide Drift on his course of action while Ratchet jerked his hips back and forwards, repeatedly mashing his nub into the head of Drift’s spike.

_He’s built a lot bigger than I am, should be able to take it._

“You asked for it.” Drift warned.

Hitching Ratchet further up the wall with one arm he reached between them with the other, taking his achingly hard spike in his hand and spreading the medic’s lubricants over the surface before placing the tip against Ratchet’s entrance. Slowly, inexorably he breached Ratchet’s internal passage, feeling the tense callipers flex and flutter around him. Ratchet let out a startled cry that became a long, throaty moan of bliss as Drift continued to press upwards. Fighting the urge to rush and risk hurting the medic Drift shut his optics off and buried his face in the other mech’s neck, heaving massive gasps of Ratchet’s unique scent as he entered him.

It took a small eternity of breathless effort and every last shred of Drift’s self-control before he was finally, _finally_ sheathed to the baseplate in Ratchet, feeling the medic twitch and spasm around him.

 _Oh Primus, he feels_ so good _. So much better than I imagined…_

“ _Yes_ ”

Opening his optics, Drift saw an expression of what he could only describe as blissed-out awe spread across Ratchet’s faceplates. Beneath the white chevron his optics were blown wide and his mouth hung slackly open. Drift thought about kissing him again, the thought almost too much as Ratchet’s callipers held him an almost-too-tight grip. He liked smaller mechs and had gotten his spike modified so he could get that snug feeling with a wider range of partners, but he hadn’t expected Ratchet to feel like _this_ without preparation.

_I should’ve…_

“ _Frag_ Drift.” Ratchet gasped, bringing his other leg up to wrap it around Drift’s waist with the other, trusting Drift to take his weight and firmly impaling himself. “You didn’t tell me you were _huge_.”

Laughing weakly, Drift shook his helm with disbelief.

“You’re the ship’s medic. Surely you’ve looked at everyone’s specs.” He said, giving his hips a teasing little roll to test how well Ratchet had adjusted.

“Holy SHIT!” Ratchet yelped, digging his fingers deep into the gaps of Drift’s back armour and trying to explain as Drift began rocking his hips, fragging Ratchet slowly against the wall. “Locked a-archive. Information re-trieval does _n’t_ happen un-unless I’m working o-OH!-on someone and the in-formation is needed.”

Drift hummed acknowledgement, leaning his forehelm against Ratchet’s shoulder and shutting his optics off so he could concentrate on keeping his movements smooth and slow. He couldn’t believe that Ratchet was still so impossibly tight, even though his callipers were rippling smoothly and lubricant was pouring down from their joined arrays and down Drift’s thighs where the shower spray washed it away.

 _Should have prepped him. Slag, does he never even use_ toys?

Strong legs tightened around his hips and Ratchet wriggled against him, trying to get Drift to move faster. He resisted, growling with the effort. It was hard, harder than he’d thought possible. All he wanted to do was let go and pound Ratchet through the wall and he _couldn’t_. Not yet, at least.

_Not gonna hurt him._

“Come on kid, _give it to me_.” Ratchet’s voice was a combination of authority and that husky tone of his that could bring Drift to overload all by itself. “I’m not some little Towers flower, if you’re gonna frag me do it _properly_.”

“Not… gonna… hurt you.” Drift ground out through gritted denta as he continued his deliberate pace. “You’re still too tight, gonna rip you by accident if I go faster. Frag, Ratch! When was the last time you played with your valve?”

It was hard to speak, even harder to think about anything other than Ratchet’s valve rippling around him and that frame undulating against his so perfectly. That was why Drift noticed the jolt that went through Ratchet, the way his rhythm stuttered before he caught himself. A muted warning rang through Drift’s processors and he almost stopped, only Ratchet’s insistent movements reminding him to continue the slow rolling of his hips.

“You do play with yourself, don’t you?” Drift asked, stilling his hips.

The hint of guilt on Ratchet’s faceplates said it all.

“Oh don’t give me _that_ look.” Ratchet snapped, going rigid against Drift. “It’s a bit slagging hard to rub one out when your hands seize up or you drop the toy halfway through.”

 _I’ve done it now. Mood officially_ ruined _._

He was about to withdraw and apologise but Ratchet sensed his intentions and held onto Drift with strength that couldn’t be denied. Drift’s engine revved and he let his forehelm _thunk_ onto Ratchet’s shoulder as those powerful limbs did nothing but fuel his lust.

“No, you let me finish.” Ratchet growled in his audial. “I didn’t for a long time because it wasn’t worth the effort, and lately I haven’t wanted to, because...” Ratchet trailed off, optics sliding to the side. His faceplates and chevron started radiating embarrassed warmth as he muttered. “I did something _very_ stupid just after my final upgrades; still can’t quite shake the memory. Trust me, makes it much easier to live without self-servicing with _that_ file popping up every time I try.”

Filled with conflicting impulses, Drift shivered under the cool patter of solvent spray on his overheated backplates and listened to the steady, aroused thrum of Ratchet’s engine. Ratchet was warm and still against his front, fingers flexing gently against Drift’s backplates in unconscious movements that were oddly soothing, although the continued flexing of his valve wasn’t helping Drift think at all. The silence dragged on, too many questions tumbling through Drift’s processors for him to figure out how to phrase any of them tactfully.

“Drift?”

Ratchet’s worried voice took Drift by surprise and jolted the topmost question from his processor to his vocaliser before he could think about what he was saying.

“What did you do?” He blurted, then immediately wanted to kick himself.

“Huh?”

 _I should get Percy to glue my mouth shut or something. All I do is shove my pede in there whenever I open it_.

“The stupid thing… no, forget it.” Drift muttered, embarrassment burning through his frame. “Sorry, I think I’ve pretty thoroughly killed the mood here.”

“I’ve had weirder mid-frag conversations, kid.” Ratchet actually had the gall to laugh, the vibrations doing extremely distracting things to Drift’s spike where it was still buried deep inside the medic’s frame. “As for what I did, well as soon as my year all got our final upgrades we went out and celebrated. Sometime between passing out in my dorm room and waking up in the morning I went into heat. I was still fairly wasted when I woke up so the first thing I tried to do was self-service a bit to take the edge off.” Ratchet cringed at the memory. “Forceps found me with both hands in my valve and halfway to shutdown from sensory overload.”

Drift could hear Ratchet’s words; he knew the situation Ratchet described was incredibly dangerous but his processors had seized on a single image and refused to let go of it. He shivered, groaning low in his chest as his imagination decided to embellish the picture.

“Drift?” Ratchet’s hands stilled on his backplates. “You ok?”

Somehow Drift got his vocaliser to produce words, even though all he wanted to do was whimper with helpless lust.

“Frag.” Drift choked out. “You. Just… _frag_.”

“Going to need some clarification.” Ratchet sounded amused.

Trying to put what he was thinking into words was almost torturous; Drift shivered and clung to thick red-and-white armour as he pictured the scene Ratchet described, the medic sprawled on his berth with fingers from both hands in his valve, armour flared and optics burning bright from the effects of a heat cycle, with the same slack-jawed expression of bliss from earlier on his faceplates.

“You. With your hands in your… _frag_.” Drift was shaking, the thought combined with the situation to bring him to the edge of overload. “ _Ratch!_ ”

Drift’s engine roared and he actually did whimper as his hips bucked involuntarily, Ratchet’s almost-too-tight valve clamping down around him to send more lubricant down Drift’s thighs.

“You like that image, huh?” Ratchet asked, his voice dropping back down to that husky tone he’d used on Drift so many times. “What was it, me in heat or me knuckle-deep in my own valve, my legs spread as wide as they can go, lube leaking all down my armour and pooling on the berth?”

“ _F-frag_.” Drift’s engine whined and he shuddered against Ratchet, _inside_ Ratchet, fighting for control.

“Was it both?” Ratchet’s voice was rich and wicked in Drift’s audial as he arched his spinal struts, pushing against Drift. “So ready, so desperate for you that I couldn’t wait, stuffing myself as full as I can but all I can think about is how much I want someone… How much better it would be if I had someone’s spike inside me instead of my own fingers. ” Drift had to shut his optics off to concentrate, burying his faceplates in Ratchet’s shoulder and fighting the need screaming through his frame as Ratchet’s voice rumbled through his frame, painting images that came close to undoing him. “Or perhaps it’s the idea of me fingering myself to overload and pretending it was you? Hmm… Would you like to see that?”

All Drift could do was nod as his charge continued to skyrocket. It threatened to reach overload levels as Ratchet’s field extended shyly to stroke at his with genuine desire.

 _How is he_ doing _this?_

“Well, if that’s the case I’d be more than happy to oblige.” Ratchet lowered his voice to a wickedly amused purr, lips brushing Drift’s audial. “Would you prefer to walk in on it, or watch from the start?”

That was Drift’s downfall.

Overload hit him with a shudder and a groan, spilling deep inside Ratchet as his legs gave out and he sank to the floor, taking a victorious Ratchet down with him. Strong legs vanished from around Drift’s waist, Ratchet catching them both and guiding Drift carefully to the floor. Drift ended up pinned to the floor with Ratchet straddling his thighs, his spike still buried baseplate-deep and completely at the mercy of Ratchet’s callipers.

 _Oh frag me_.

“That sounds like something we’ll have to talk about later.” Ratchet’s smug voice filtered through the patter of falling cleanser and Drift’s post-overload haze. “Because I really do enjoy putting on a show for an appreciative audience.”

“Frag, Ratch.” Drift gasped. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He flexed his arms, testing Ratchet’s grip and found himself restrained effortlessly. To the day he offlined Drift would deny the sound he made as he wriggled beneath Ratchet’s weight. Ratchet claimed (in public, at least) that the amount of lust Drift projected at finding himself pinned to the floor temporarily overwhelmed all other sensory input.

“Not gonna kill you.” Ratchet gasped unsteadily as he rolled his hips and his field unfurled in a rush to meet Drifts, “Do want to frag you through the floor, though.”

Drift’s engine roared as he tried to thrust but Ratchet couldn’t be budged. By now small tongues of lightning crawled over Drift’s frame and danced across the washrack floor.

“Please.” Drift gasped. He’d wanted this for so long and now it was finally happening. “Frag me, Ratchet. _Please_.”

The expression on Ratchet’s face was triumphant. His Field was full of hunger and affection where it flowed against Drift’s as he began to move. Slow, smooth lifts of red hips that pulled cries of delight from Drift’s vocaliser as he tried to move in counterpoint.

Overload was approaching fast, too fast for his liking. Fast was probably good, since they were in a public washrack (although not a popular one) and someone in search of a quiet place to clean up could interrupt them.

_Not quiet in here right now. They’ll hear us halfway down the corridor._

Drift wished that this could have happened in a berth where they could draw this out. It would also make it easier tilt his hips just _so_ to press the special mod on his spike housing against one of Ratchet’s exterior nodes to make him groan like that. He did it again and this time Ratchet stopped moving to press himself down on Drift, optics off and faceplates scrunched in a familiar expression as he shivered on the knife-edge of overload.

Drift’s high-performance engine drowned the sounds that came from both of their vocalisers as Ratchet shuddered over him, overloading harder than Drift had ever seen anyone do before. Then Drift’s second overload tore through his frame and he howled with bliss as Ratchet collapsed, shutdown claiming him in the wake of his overload.

It was uncomfortable on the hard, wet floor beneath the limp medic’s heavy frame, but the expression Drift could see on Ratchet’s faceplates was more than worth it. Despite the compromising position he felt safe, secure and sheltered by Ratchet’s frame.

Carefully, Drift slipped his wrists from lax red fingers and wrapped his arms around Ratchet’s strong torso, purring happily as he waited for his lover to reboot.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't forgotten this AU. Other things have just gotten in the way.


End file.
